  The hounds went romping with delight Bold Robin Dawe was over first, Cheering his hounds on at the burst; The field were spurring to be in it, "Hold hard, sirs, give them half a minute," Came from Sir Peter on his white. The hounds went romping with delight The tail hounds galloped hell-for-leather After the pack at Myngs's yell; A cry like every kind of bell Rang from these rompers as they raced. The riders thrusting to be placed, Jammed down their hats and shook their horses, The hounds romped past with all their forces, They crashed into the blackthorn fence; The scent was heavy on their sense, So hot it seemed the living thing, It made the blood within them sing, Gusts of it made their hackles rise, Hot gulps of it were agonies Of joy, and thirst for blood, and passion. Fifth colored plate Courtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York "Forrard," cried Robin, "that's the fashion." He raced beside his pack to cheer. The field's noise died upon his ear, A faint horn, far behind, blew thin In cover, lest some hound were in. Then instantly the great grass rise Shut field and cover from his eyes, He and his racers were alone. "A dead fox or a broken bone," Said Robin, peering for his prey. The rise, which shut his field away, Shewed him the vale's great map spread out, The downs' lean flank and thrusting snout, Pale pastures, red-brown plough, dark wood, Blue distance, still as solitude, Glitter of water here and there, The dark green gorse and bright green holly. "O glorious God," he said, "how jolly." And there, down hill, two fields ahead, The lolloping red dog-fox sped Over Poor Pastures to the brook. He grasped these things in one swift look Then dived into the bulfinch heart Through thorns that ripped his sleeves apart And skutched new blood upon his brow. "His point's Lark's Leybourne Covers now," Said Robin, landing with a grunt, "Forrard, my beautifuls." The hunt Followed down hill to race with him, White Rabbit with his swallow's skim, "A traveller. Nothing could be neater. Making for Godsdown clumps, I take it?" "Lark's Leybourne, sir, if he can make it. Forrard." |
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